


A Sad Tale’s Best for Winter

by Oshun



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt</b>: Write a story or create art about the midwinter holiday (Yule or another midwinter holiday of your choosing). </p><p>Elrond looks back on Yuletides past at two distinct periods in his life, nearly an Age and a half apart. “The famous <em>saudade</em> of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.” (<i>In Portugal</i>, by AFG Bell, 1912.)</p><p><b>Beta</b>: The extraordinarily patient Ignoblebard must have read this five or six times. Thank you. (I cannot thank Pandemonium, Nelyo Russandol, Drummerwench, and Scarlet enough for reading and offering corrections and suggestions). Any remaining mistakes or poor judgment calls are my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sad Tale’s Best for Winter

Artwork included is by Dawn Felagund. (Calligraphy and illumination of brief passages from the story. Artist's note: The calligraphy utilizes a script I developed based on Tolkien's own writing in the Tengwar of "Namárië" and "A Elbereth Gilthoniel." The illumination is based on a style used in the 15th-century Bible of Borso d'Este. Ink, acrylic, and gold leaf on Bristol vellum.)

**o0o0o0o**

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,  
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;  
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,  
In the bleak midwinter, long ago. –“In the Bleak Midwinter,” Christina Rossetti (1872)1

**o0o0o0o**

**Foothills of the Andram Highlands, Eastern Beleriand, First Age 539**

That afternoon, one of those clear, crisp days that often follow a heavy snow, Elros and I hovered outside of the front door of the house. We horsed around on the packed, hard-frozen snow near the woodpile, yearning to run around farther afield. But our thin, low boots were no match for the expanse of snow that stretched untouched across the clearing before the woods.

We had promised Maglor that we would stay close to the door and not get too wet. When we spotted Erestor working his way toward the house, we watched him enthralled. His huffed breath was visible in the frigid air, his cheeks a bright rosy pink. Stopping to rest for a moment, he spotted us, smiling broadly and waving. Elros and I waved back with great energy. Sinking almost to his thighs with every labored step, his progress was slow; he dragged a fir tree behind him. Only Maedhros was missing from our little family circle. He had refused Maglor’s invitation to come outside and ‘get some air’ with us.

“Why is Nelyo so sad today?” Elros asked, as though he sensed I was thinking of Maedhros again. As the winter had dragged on, Maedhros seemed to get quieter and quieter. Or maybe I only noticed because we were indoors so much. If for no other reason, his gloominess made me long for spring. It was hard for the rest of us to share our little house with that sad-faced winter Maedhros.

I was a precocious child and had heard the tales of the awfulness of Maedhros Fëanarion. In light of what I observed, it was easy for me to assume that the majority of the stories I heard had been exaggerated or worse, perhaps wholly invented. Yet, I had seen him armor-clad with a bloody sword the day our mother left us to them. For that matter, the first time I saw Maglor, our diligent tutor and fair-tempered musician had looked equally wild and fierce. I assumed Maedhros’ brooding silence came from fear of the consequences of his possibly terrible deeds, or perhaps, I hoped, was a sign of his regret.

It might interest some who know me now that in those days Elros was the noisy, carefree child. I was the pensive, hypersensitive one. At that point, I had chosen Maedhros to study.

Looking to Maglor for approval, I asked, “Was it because he was worried we might run out of firewood?” The only sound Maedhros had made all day had been to grumble that Erestor had put too many logs on the fire.

Maglor shook his head no. “He isn’t feeling well today. And, I have a feeling that Eressetor’s tree is not going to help any. Possibly quite the contrary.” “Nice tree,” I said, still hopeful. “It reminds me of a Yule tree. The kind you decorate with red ribbons and pine cones painted gold and silver.”

 

 

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/heartofoshun/9211999/1332126/1332126_original.jpg)

Calligraphy and illumination by Dawn Felagund

“I suspect that is exactly what Eressetor intends.” Maglor gave me a wry smile and ruffled my hair. “Without the red ribbons and gilded pine cones.”

Elros shrieked, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” Right into my ear. “I remember those.” My brother was beyond unruly in those days. Despite his yelps never meeting with the irritation I still half expected, I cringed whenever he howled like that.

Erestor let the tree drop causing a cloud of fine dry snow to rise up and settle again. He laughed aloud and rested for a short moment, bending forward with his hands on his knees and breathing heavily, before he yelled, “Macalaurë, you lazy sod! Don’t stand there gawping. Get down here and help me carry it up to the house.”

Maglor ploughed out to meet him. With a lot of swearing from Erestor and laughing on Maglor’s part, fighting the knee-deep snow, they finally wrestled the tree up the shallow incline to the house. It wasn’t as big up-close as it had looked at a distance, only reaching as high as Maglor’s eyebrows.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” said Maglor.

“Of course it is!” insisted Erestor with that tone his voice takes on when he is ready for an argument. “What do you think, boys?”

“It’s amazing!” shouted Elros, jumping in place. “We’ll decorate the tree and Maglor will play music and we will all dance and eat lots of spice cake.” My discomfort at my twin’s behavior had reached a crescendo of mortification.

“Well,” drawled Maglor, “we certainly can have music. Not sure how one makes spice cakes without a proper oven.”

“How about you, Elrond? What do you think of the tree?” asked Erestor, shooting a curious look over my head in the direction of the door. I turned to see what had caught his attention.

Maedhros’ tall, lean form filled the doorway, stern and handsome as a warrior-prince in a picture book or etched on a silver goblet, all sharp cheekbones and jaw lines, with a hero’s firm mouth and straight nose. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly what he looks like, despite his shabby clothes and the dark circles under his eyes. Sighing, he looked at me, almost as though he might smile, before he lowered his eyebrows in puzzlement. It felt like he had noticed me for the first time. In that moment, I decided that he could not be _so_ wicked, but perhaps terribly sad and as lost and out-of-place as I sometimes felt.

“It’s a very pretty tree,” I said to Erestor, thinking the answer painfully inadequate, all the while holding eye contact with Maedhros.

“It is a nice-looking tree, Eressetor. Thank you very much for finding it,” Maedhros said, his voice softer than usual, but still kingly. “The rest of you set up the tree. Elrond and I will look for something to use to decorate it and perhaps make a start on some spice cakes.” He reached out and ruffled my hair. “Do you like to cook, Elrond?”

“I don’t know how,” I said. “Maglor says we’re too young to mess about in the kitchen.”

“Never too young,” Maedhros said. “But if he feels that way, we won’t make it in the kitchen. We’ll construct our own oven in the forge. We can make a better one later. But all we need for now is a few bricks.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling the tightness in my chest dissolving. “I’d like that very much.”

I found out later that morning that Maedhros was more competent at practical matters with only one good hand than Maglor was with two. As we stacked bricks into an oven-like formation on the right side of the main fire in the forge, I asked him what we needed to make spice cakes, more to keep him from lapsing into silence again than because I was fascinated with the details.

“It seems we’re woefully short on spices,“ said Maedhros. “There is still cinnamon though and a little nutmeg. We can use the maple sugar that Eressetor and Lohtë made last spring and add chopped hazel nuts. Other than that, we’ll only need flour, eggs, butter, and a little milk. If you like we can toss in some dried currants.”

“You really do know how to bake don’t you?” I asked surprised. I was accustomed to Erestor’s experiments with food preparation, sometimes with excellent results and others which turned out so shockingly bad that the account had to be preserved in song.

“I do. And, after today, you will too.” The grin he gave came close to boyish.

 

**o0o0o0o**

If I had known them better then, I would have realized that something might have been off about Maedhros. But children are self-absorbed. A daily routine provides comfort and security, and we finally had one there. One might think that I would recall those years with them as ones of homesickness and austerity. But actually I did not, far from it. Our rough little house was dry and never drafty. We had warm clothes, plenty of bedding, and never went to sleep hungry.

Most importantly, we had more company day-by-day and hour-by-hour, than we had ever had as the revered little princes of the Havens of Sirion. No one was ever cross with us, although Maglor did insist upon good manners. Most importantly, there was always something happening. And we were not sequestered somewhere in a nursery, but always right in the middle of everything. People came and went throughout the day needing to talk to Maedhros. Maglor worried about our welfare and looked after us, singing or humming under his breath most of the time when he was not instructing us. Erestor reported on events from outside of our house. We were delighted to discover that his sharp commentary and sarcastic criticism provoked either laughter or outrage in otherwise much too serious adults.

After a few months, at Maedhros’ insistence, they found a pretty young woman to look after us several hours every day. Lohtë, like Erestor, talked and laughed a lot. She smelled nice also, with a yeasty womanish smell and just a hint of springtime in the mountains, as though she were a different species entirely from Maedhros, Maglor, or Erestor.

Whenever we would hold still long enough, she hugged both of us and kissed us, telling us how clever and handsome we were. Maglor continued our lessons: reading, writing, Quenya, arithmetic, history of the Eldar and, of course, music. (Much later we would find that Maedhros was appalled when he discovered the paucity of the natural and practical sciences in Maglor’s curriculum. He remedied that and then some to make up for time lost.)

Erestor wrestled with us and teased us, making us scream and squeal, which annoyed Maglor to no end, not at us, but at Erestor. He scolded Erestor daily for, ‘getting them all riled up.’ When the weather was nice, Erestor drilled us with wooden swords, although Maglor was the far better swordsman. In those first couple of years, Lohtë talked a lot about teaching us archery, but never got around to it. We had plenty of time she said.

Maedhros largely ignored us, unless we got really noisy. Then he would look up at us from a book or from talking quietly with one of his followers and watch us for a few minutes with a bland, distracted tolerance. Lohtë would sometimes ask, “Are they bothering you? Should I take them for a walk?” He would look surprised, shrug and shake his head, saying, “I hadn’t really noticed. I’m used to kids and a noisy house.”

But best of all, the close conditions under which we lived meant that one was never alone. Children do not like to be left alone. In more spacious accommodations, a young child will leave behind a nursery filled with expensive clever toys, to play with a wooden horse at the feet of his caretakers. Despite our tender years, Elros and I had been left alone or with indifferent adults far too much in the past.

So, against all expectations, those of Maglor, and even our own, Elros and I had adapted quickly to the Feanorians and our life in the crude cabin on the edge of the woods. In years to come the hut would morph into a much larger and more comfortable cottage, but at that time, it was functional and clean. The most impressive thing about it for me was the large fireplace and chimney.

“Designed for a larger building,” complained Erestor, whose father had been an architect in Tirion. “We certainly will not freeze this winter.”

Even when it had been one of those grim, quiet days for Maedhros, he would crack a smile at that and answer. “Actually, it was not designed at all. I just grew tired of waiting for one of you to suggest we do something about constructing a permanent shelter and I built that chimney alone. Nice job, actually. The stones are beautiful, if I have to say so myself.”

Maglor would grin at him, brightening simply because Maedhros had spoken, and say, “Draws beautifully too. You’re a man of many accomplishments, whereas I am good at only one thing.”

“I’d rather be brilliant at one thing,” Erestor said, “than fair to middling at a lot of things, like me.”

That sometimes drew a grunt from Maedhros. I was never sure if he agreed or disapproved.

 

**o0o0o0o**

After a day of preparations, in my case spent mostly with Maedhros—an unprecedented experience—the evening finally came. The house, hot and crowded with people, smelled of pine sap, cinnamon, browned sugar, and baked apples. Erestor’s tree was the greatest success; that and our spice cakes.

Maedhros had dug out a tattered red battle flag from the bottom of the trunk at the foot of his bed. He and I tore it into ribbons and gave those to Erestor and Elros to use for garlands and bows on the tree. We had our cakes to attend to.

When visitors began to arrive, they brought candles and lamps as well as elderberry wine, chestnuts for roasting, and little meat pies. Someone dragged in an additional wooden bench. People ate and drank for well over an hour, maybe two, before Maglor started to play.

Two brothers from the cluster of dwellings near Bear’s Creek brought a flute and a rebec. I recall their names--Bala and Alag. It made Elros giggle that people always said those two names as one. He did not seem to notice that outside of our home people did that with our names as well.

Neither Bala nor Alag talked much. But Bala created magic with his flute and no one was as swift and subtle with a bow and a rebec as Alag, not even Maglor. Late that night, in that little cottage of wattle and daub, the three of them together made music that would have enchanted any gathering from Taniquetil to the remotest eastern forest.

We laughed and ate spice cake until I felt slightly sick, but I soon danced that off. I forgot myself to the point where I suppose that I screeched and laughed almost as loudly as Elros. Erestor finally took a break to sit down, after wearing out all of his lady dance partners and flirting with all of the men. No sooner had he done so, than Elros crawled up onto his lap and fell asleep.

As Maglor chose slower and more melancholy tunes, the number of our guests thinned. My legs grew tired and my eyes sandy. I looked about for Lohtë, thinking I would not object if she ordered me into the tiny bedroom I shared with Elros and followed to tuck the covers about my neck and shoulders, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then I spotted Maedhros in a chair almost hidden in the shadow of our Yule tree. The light from the remaining candles and fire betrayed him, finding a reflected heat in his flaming hair.

Calligraphy and illumination by Dawn Felagund

His face shone as white as a winter moon in a midnight sky. He placed his tankard on the floor with the studied care of a man half-drunk from unwatered wine and quirked a finger at me.

Relieved, I stumbled over to his corner. Lifting me onto his lap, he tucked my head between his neck and shoulder. His body felt unexpectedly yielding. He had more flesh on his bones than I had expected. His fresh male scent, undercut with the sharp smell of alcohol and a trace of ozone, enveloped me, at once exotic and comforting. He held me like one well accustomed to lulling little boys to sleep. I released a tiny whimper of a sigh and snuggled closer, too drowsy to be self-conscious.

“You’re exhausted, little man. Rest. I’ll tuck you in when you fall asleep. I predict the next song will be a quiet one that Maglor wrote for our last Yule feast at Himring a few years back. He always saves it for the end.”

Obsessed with stories and history, I jolted myself back into alertness. “Was your celebration like this one?” I asked. Feeling the rumble of his low laugh in his chest, I smiled to myself and waited. In those days I had already learned that one could coax a story from a stone simply by a readiness to listen.

“Nothing like. Except perhaps in the scent of pine and spice cakes, and Maglor’s harp. That one was a grand and royal fete. There must have been several hundreds, clad in their most splendid finery, crowded into Himring’s great hall. The room held a king’s ransom that night in gold and mithril jewelry, coronets and collars, not to mention maroon, purple, and sapphire-colored robes of velvet trimmed in fur and braid. The clothes were worth nearly as much as the jewels. I had wanted to pay fitting homage to our guest the High King of the Noldor and to impress upon my _own_ people where our allegiance must lie.”

“Fingon the Valiant?” I asked, mesmerized.

“None other.”

“What was _he_ like?”

“That night he was merry as a lark.” His words had begun to slur a little, but his grip on me remained secure. There was no danger he would drop me.

“I’ve heard stories of his bravery. And that you were the best of friends. Tell me what he was _really_ like.”

He chuckled at that. “He was exactly what everyone says he was. There was none braver, bolder, or more honorable.” He gave another softer, sadder laugh. “Obviously, he was intelligent and gifted in many ways--a worthy scion of Finwë. A magnificent warrior, a better than fair musician, and there was no more faithful friend in all of Arda.”

I leaned back further against his upper arm to watch his face, as he gazed unseeing across the darkening room. I’d seen that look on the faces of others before. It was a look of being ‘in love.’ Usually in the stories, being in love involved finding someone very beautiful and good and never wanting to ever be away from them again. I wondered if our father had truly been in love with our mother. Nana was beautiful, in her own agitated way, all light, bright eyes and high cheekbones like Elros, but with a huge mop of fine, unruly black hair like mine. But our father did devote more time to sailing far away from her, and from the two of us, than he ever spent at home.

“Was King Fingon beautiful?” I asked.

“Indeed he was, but that was only a small part of what made me love him.” He frowned and swallowed the way I did when I was trying not to cry. “I would have gladly traded my life for his. But the Valar are cruel and insatiable, much like their dark brother. They threw my unworthy life back in my face and allowed him to take Findekáno’s.”

Across the room, Maglor played one chord, almost inaudible, and followed with a second somewhat louder one. Then he began to sing,

_“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,_  
 _Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone . . .”_

I do not remember falling asleep, but do remember that my last conscious thought was that the worst had passed.

**o0o0o0o**

** Imladris, Third Age 195 **

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself  
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.' John Milton, _Paradise Lost_.

The fir trees that grew along the steep, rocky road leading down into the valley had provided ample greenery to deck the entirety of the Hall of Fire from every lofty arch to frost-covered window.  Holly and ivy twined every column. A massive tree, festooned with red ribbons and crowded with an impressive collection of dangling ornaments of glittering silver, gold, and crystal, stood in front of the bay windows, almost hiding the view of the snow-covered balcony and the starry sky beyond. 

The Yule log blazing in the enormous fireplace warmed the farthest corners of the hall. I heard Elrohir and Celebrían bickering softly behind me and turned.

“Watch how much you drink tonight, young man. Don’t use Erestor as your model, always playing at being cynical and dark. He is not as invulnerable as you might think he is.”

“Erestor’s not dark!” Elrohir laughed the smug laugh of a young man who still knows everything. “And who can begrudge him a little posturing. He is the most attractive man in this hall tonight!”

“More appealing even than Glorfindel?” she asked, amused. Elrohir preferred men. While she accepted that fact with equanimity, her acquiescence did not prevent her from fearing it might bring its own set of problems for him.

“Out on patrol.” Mother and son giggled together at his quick riposte.

“Ah, my darling, you know that I love Erestor like a brother.” Undeterred from her point, my wife picked up her lecture where she had left it, while Elrohir continued to pretend to dismiss it.

“Actually, he covers a world of grief and loss with his sharp tongue and incessant philandering,” she said.

“Like Elladan, I guess?”

“Really?” The timbre of her voice rose, an indication of anxiety. “You think your brother does that? I mean, hides something behind his lack of seriousness?”

“I hadn’t realized it until this second. But, yes, I think perhaps he does. Many things are harder for him than he will admit, Nana.” Elrohir’s voice broke a little on that last remark.

I looked at our laughing elder son across the room, flush-cheeked, cocky, and handsome, tossing back half a tankard of ale like it was water. As though I don’t have enough to worry about already, I thought, filing his brother’s comment away for future rumination.

Then, with no small amount of fanfare, liveried serving men entered the hall to glide amongst the assembled guests with trays of after-dinner sweetmeats. The kitchen had exceeded itself with its flawless collection of preserved berry tarts, vanilla iced pastries, marzipan treats mimicking everything from tiny peaches, pears, and strawberries to all manner of out-of-season fruits.

There were also, of course, the traditional midwinter spice cakes, far more stylishly presented in lacy paper holders than the homely ones that Maedhros had taught me to make so long ago. The familiar lingering fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg brought back bittersweet memories of my childhood.

The first wave of delicacies was followed by servers carrying larger trays of steaming cups of mulled wine. The festive elegance, a once or twice a year exception to the daily comfort of the Hall of Fire, gave nod to some half-remembered or imagined ideal of courtly entertainment in Tirion or Doriath. I wasn’t sure whether I had Celebrían or Erestor to thank for the fanciful display.

A long table at the back of the hall served ale and unenhanced Dorwinion wines for those who preferred simpler refreshment.

Coming up behind me, Erestor slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re unnaturally quiet tonight,” he drawled. Sipping a cup of the fragrant mulled wine, he raised a disapproving eyebrow at me.

“Thank you for putting it so graciously,” I said. “I admit that I deserve worse.”

“All right then. I’ll take that as tacit permission to speak freely,” Erestor said, as though he ever did anything else. “You’ve been skulking around like a whipped dog all week.”

“So says Celebrían, although usually in somewhat gentler terms.”

“Reminiscences of Yuletides past again?”

“Could be.”

“Gil-galad?” Erestor asked. His cheeky effrontery made it easier to push back the black wave of despondency that threatened to engulf me.

“No. Although, if I permitted myself to think about him for long . . . ” I allowed myself a self-deprecating chortle. “This year it’s Maedhros.” We both shared a bitter laugh at my expense. “I was thinking of our first Yule in East Beleriand. Remember that tree you cut for us?”

“How could I forget? That was a lumbering bear of a bollocks-freezing, Valar-forsaken winter. And I ripped my palms into ribbons felling and dragging the cursed thing home for you kidlets. It was worth it though. I think you both started to relax with us after that night.”

“Whatever your motives,” I began, earning myself a huff and an offended glance. Erestor was not easy to shock, so I relished the modest pleasure it gave me when I was able to do so.  “. . . you were always good to us. All of you were. I just can’t seem to stop thinking of Maedhros tonight. He seemed much better after that celebration. For a long while.”

“I would have presumed you’d be thinking of later years, with that look of hungry yearning.” He gave me lascivious grin.

“No, not actually. That was but puppy love, or hero worship, or adolescent lust, or all of those together.”

Everything I said was total bullshit. I had loved Maedhros with all of my young heart. When I lost him, my grief was terrible, not to mention my anger. I was young and believed he should have wanted to live for me! But I did learn one important thing. While I was not a person who could easily exist without love, loving came easy to me. Not long after Maedhros, I fell in love again and then, losing Gil, finally, one last time. I instinctively glanced about the room seeking to locate Celebrían. Elros used to tell me that I had an open heart--as often as not a criticism or a warning. But, still, I suppose this is what he meant. As far as I know, Elros had loved only once and founded a dynasty upon that love.

“I still don’t regret it. I’ll be the first to admit that I learned a lot from Maedhros.”

Erestor rolled his eyes at me. “Oh, do share! Have you been holding out on me all these years?”

“Don’t be an ass. I didn’t mean that sort of thing. I meant everyone has to endure at least one broken heart. And, some of us, like you and me, survive more than one. At least he was worthy of the pain he caused me. Even at my ripe old age, I am still impressed with myself for having snagged him as my first.” Sparring with Erestor did not dispel, but did take the edge off my gloominess.

“As well you should be.” The muscles of his face then relaxed into a vulnerable sincerity. “I only wish you could have known him before. By the time you met him, he was but a shade of his former self.”

Erestor jerked his head up and frowned in the direction of the musicians. “Buggering Balrogs. Brace yourself. The worst is yet to come. Look at Lindir. Determined to wring a tear out of the most cynical.”

The self-proclaimed chief minstrel of Rivendell had picked up his lute and cradled it to his chest in readiness, cocking his head to one side with a studied look of poignant sadness on his pale, finely-wrought face. Too lofty to call for silence like any common player, he waited until people noticed he was ready to begin, allowing the hall to quiet little by little. Such an actor he was. Maglor had needed no such stagey gestures. His voice had been more than enough. Yet Lindir, even then without having yet reached his peak, far surpassed good; he was outstanding and I was well aware of how lucky I was to have found him.

The song, predictably chosen and traditional, was Maglor’s ball-breaking or heart-wrenching _Bleak Midwinter_ , depending upon whether you asked Erestor or Celebrían.

When he had finished, Elladan led the applause, calling out. “Bravo, Lindir! Did you write that?”

“Oh, how I wish I had!” was Lindir’s uncharacteristically modest response.

“Who did write it then?”

Erestor shot Elladan a pained look. My pouting had clearly worn out his patience, leaving little for others. Not that I had not endured a fair amount of negativity from him over the years. Erestor had a way of getting his heart shattered with tiresome regularity and casting a pall over the entire household for weeks to months as a result.

“That was written by your father’s foster-father Canafinwë Macalaurë Feanárion,” Erestor said. “Maglor to you two poorly-educated boys.”

“Ha!” hooted Elladan, unrepentant. “Should have guessed.”

“Don’t lump me with him. I knew who composed it,” grumbled Elrohir, crossing his arms in front of chest.

Elladan jumped into the fray again, grinning. “Calling us poorly-educated does not reflect well on you, Erestor. Or Glorfindel. Or even Lindir. Not to mention Atar and Amil.”

I sensed rather than saw Celebrían move closer to me, before the scent of her confirmed her presence. Her preferred winter perfume, spicier and with an undertone of musk, smelled wholly unlike the fresher essences of honeysuckle and meadow grass she liked to wear in the spring and summer. Slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her against me, I whispered into her ear. “Don’t worry about the boys; they’ll be fine.”

“Sadly, Elrond, they are no longer boys. If by ‘fine’ you mean as well as can be expected given the liabilities their parents passed along to them, then I am sure you are right. I’ve always wished them to be entirely whole and happy. But, never mind them. I’m more worried about you tonight.”

I looked down at her to find her smirking up at me. She had mastered Celeborn’s cool expressionless delivery to perfection. “Speak for yourself, my lady. I am very happy with the way I was raised! And my pedigree is outstanding.”

“Unique might be a better word. Assuming you got the best and not worst of all of that cross-breeding.”

Sharp-tongued and perceptive like her mother, Celebrían, however, engaged her world on a far more human and less cerebral level. Solidly grounded, she made people like her and feel at ease with her, although her parents were living legends. I remembered the first time I met those two, ridiculously tall and androgynously beautiful, a perfect set of silver and gold Eldarin princes. Celeborn with his royal Sindarin blood, had been conceived and raised while his people still traveled as nomads under starlight, through forests and over mountains, wending their way toward the sea. Galadriel, calculating and ambitious, learned everything she could from my own great grandmother Melian the Maia, before casting out to seek a realm of her own. Even as a woman and the youngest of the leaders of the Amanyarin exiles, she was counted among the wisest of the Wise.

“I remember when I first met you.” I smiled down at Celebrían. She was also much slighter than her mother. “I thought you would be a precious, spoiled little princess.”

“Hardly,”she teased.

“So I learned. Forced to be the son that Celeborn never had. And Galadriel . . .” I threw up my hands.

“Loves me very much. But her mothering instincts might be described as less than perfect.” I snorted at that. “She never could decide what would be most effective. I don't think she ever figured out whether she preferred bullying or coddling.”

“After I knew her better, I figured you had to be strong to have endured that terrifying creature as a mother.”

“Watch yourself, Elrond.” All this was old ground trod countless times over our years together. “She loves you!”

“That’s a stretch. And she warned you against me.” Old resentments die hard. “Because she always knows best.”

“In that case, I did not need her warning. I thought you were Gil-galad’s pretty boy. Most people did.”

“Well I wasn’t!” This was another old wound. “I was never anybody’s ‘boy.’ Not even yours, sweetheart.”

“Certainly not mine! You ignored me entirely for the first several years you knew me.” I had to laugh. She was completely right about that. An ingenuous young woman, standing in the shadow of Galadriel, did not have much of a chance of gaining my attention, while I was being tupped by Ereinion Gil-galad.

As though she had read my mind, she smacked me on the arm.

“You’re awfully physical tonight, bordering on abusive,” I said.

“Well, you’ve been unbearably annoying all week. You need to straighten yourself out before I lose my temper with you.” Although we stood in a crowded room, she grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled me into a kiss. That was one of her tricks that almost always worked—kiss away the sharp words before they had a chance to settle.

Calligraphy and illumination by Dawn Felagund

But she had brought up Gil-galad and I never could let that old accusation of inequality within our relationship pass without an answer. “He was my king. I respected and admired him, but alone with one another we were simply ‘Gil’ and ‘Elrond.’” Not entirely true, but close enough. He only treated me as his youthful bed treat, his guilty secret, for the first few weeks. And after losing Maedhros, I desperately needed to feel loved.

“Let’s agree that Galadriel was both right and wrong.” Celebrían called her Galadriel. No _Amil_ or _Nana_. Who calls their mother by her given name?  “She was wrong to think you could never love a woman. She was right to note that your only lovers to that point had been men. And one of them her oldest cousin.”

“She didn’t know about that.”

“Of course, she did, Elrond. You’re such an innocent.”

I could feel myself blushing. I was right to feel wary around my mother-in-law. An unmistakable opening chord interrupted my floundering for a response. “Not again!” I groaned under my breath. “Bleak midwinter, my rosy red arse. I’m for bed. Are you coming with me?”

“We can’t leave now. Lindir will never forgive us. It’s one of his signature pieces. He waits all year to sing it.”

“Not his, actually.” I made a face at her withering glance. “So sorry, darling. It is the second time tonight. I really cannot handle it again. I don’t see why I should have to. Impervious little twit should know by now that it bothers me.” That made her laugh.

“His point is—the intent of the song is—to evoke a longing sadness, to pull at the heartstrings, to honor our losses, remember past defeats, and instill a desire to move forward.”

“Pfft! Perhaps you’re right. Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”

She knuckled me with a surprising amount of force on the upper arm.  “Pull yourself together, Elrond! People love it. And he performs it flawlessly. He’s not singling you out for persecution.”

I felt my mouth forming a petulant grimace, which I recognized as soon as I did it, thinking, ‘ _So that is where Elrohir gets that one_.’ My second son had polished the same expression into a precise representation of unfairly put-upon disgruntlement.

“Sorry!” I said ungraciously. Even Elrohir could not have reproduced my sigh of long-suffering resignation.

”Fine, then.” She raised her chin, eyes snapping, and reined in the beginning of an indulgent smile. “Wait here, you pitiful creature. I’ll handle it.”

Celebrían made her way among the benches and chairs of Lindir’s rapt audience, her slender figure and remarkable silver hair enhanced by her simple pale blue gown bound under her small high breasts by a silver girdle studded with moonstones. I thought with admiration how her seemingly delicate beauty hid a steel backbone. A smile here, a soft squeeze on someone’s shoulder there, her movement in the direction of the musicians caught Lindir’s eye. He guessed what was coming and did not like it one little bit, but he soldiered on, the consummate professional.

She leaned forward from behind Lindir, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. His shoulders straightened. He glanced up at her, but did not miss a beat. “Thank you,” she mouthed to him, with one last intimate smoothing of his white-blond mane. She had a way of knowing how to make a person feel cherished and appreciated.

“ _Snow upon snow.  
Snow upon snow. . ._ “

Mollified, Lindir trilled, sure and confident, on the final ‘snow’ of the initial phrase, and then released his voice to soar on the second one. His rendition was nearly worthy of Maglor, although, in all honesty, I must say, with a shade less richness and color.

Celebrían, having reached me again, took my hand, leading me to the door. “It’s fine. We can leave now,” she whispered.

As soon as we were safely in the hallway and out of earshot of the gathering, she said, “He knows his audience. Who was it that said, ‘A sad tale’s best for winter?’” She grasped my upper arm, pulling it between her breasts and allowing herself to lean on me as we walked.

“I couldn’t manage without you. You are too good for me,” I said, reaching up to squeeze her hand.

“Don’t be silly. We’re co-conspirators in this struggle. We’ll never give up without a good fight. I’ve got your back and trust that you have mine.”

“Seriously, you always give me more than I expect and better than I deserve. I thought you were going to tell me, like Erestor always does, ‘Heal thyself, physician.’”

She bristled at that and then laughed, soft fingers tightening on my hand. “Erestor! That rascal. As though he had the authority to say such a thing to you.” Her voice warmed with affection for our dearest friend. “Galadriel always tells me that we will never find complete healing on this side of the sea. But I have always believed in the value of the struggle here, now.” She grabbed my chin in her small hand. Celebrían had quite a grip. “Look at me, Elrond. I’m proud of you. More than I think you know. I want to fight the long defeat with you, with courage. Chin up solider! Our valor lies in never giving up, not whether we win or lose.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Bleak Midwinter" was written by Christina Rossetti before 1872; first published in her _Poetic Works_ in 1904, appeared as a Christmas carol in _The English Hymnal_ in 1906.


End file.
